Broken Souls
by Kakashifan727
Summary: GasterxOC heavy violence and suicide Work is hard. Life is hard. And you’re tired. Just so damn tired of it all. So you take matters into your own hands. You end it all, not caring about the consequences. You wind up exactly where you wish to be; alone, in a sea of nothingness. Too bad there’s something else there that wishes you rather live.


"I see...In that case, you'd be better off going with the second option, I think. It off—"

"You think!? Don't you work here; how do you not know your own services!?"

I wince as I hear their harsh tone over the receiver, anxiety sinking into my stomach and making my voice tremble. I move the mouthpiece slightly as I take a deep breath to try and compose myself. Another difficult one. Just kill em with kindness, I tell myself—a desperate bid to keep my mood stable. If only it was so easy.

"I can't tell you which p-plan to take. I can...only advise you based on w-what you've told me."

"So you're useless, then!"

I can't respond; how does anyone to an accusation like that. I simply stammer out something the best I can, trying to seem polite. They yammer on, hurling insults and words that make my heart ache and stomach become nauseous. I do my best to interject, putting on my fake customer service voice.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"—maybe if I got someone who knew what they were talking about…!"

They don't even stop in their tirade, not letting me get a word in edgewise. Uuuggghhh...This day is simply not going well.

I can feel the heat of tears start to sting the corners of my eyes, doing my best to blink them back. I take another couple deep breaths, trying to control the trembling of my voice as best as I can. I don't want to break down completely.

"O-oh...Let me...s-see if I can transfer you to...a supervisor."

"Hmph. Good. Then hopefully this person will know what they are doing!"

I quickly hit the transfer button and dial in the number of my supervisor, giving them the rundown on this particular caller. I feel hopeless as I do so, angered and frustrated by my inability to help this particular customer. I feel useless, covering my face with my hands as take a deep breath.

I should just shrivel into nothing and die. Or better yet, just die. Die. Die.

That singular word consumes my thoughts turning into a mantra of sorts. I hear my breathing becoming strained, images floating through my mind. Blood dripping down my face. Lacerations on my arms or legs. My own hands around my neck. They don't feel scary at all; but rather inviting. Oh no….I am worried about the trail of thoughts, but part of me—a rather large part doesn't want to fight against them. I can't stop them, pouring like water into my brain and consuming any other coherent thought I'm trying to have. I messed up. I could have handled that better; said something more intelligible. Anything. How useless am I!? I'm barely broken out of the horrible reverie by a soft voice somewhere far away from my cubicle.

"H-hey, are you alright?"

I hear my coworker say, and I turn to face them, wearing a slowly diminishing smile. I don't even know who they are; we don't talk too much. Some old woman named Barbara or whatever generic name like that. I can barely pay attention to them, my nerves are shot right now, and my mind is screaming at me. I see horrible things; visions of myself covered in my own blood, stabbing myself with scissors or shoving my head in the toilet, drowning myself or slamming the lid of it down in my skull until it cracks into a bloody mess. I don't know how that last one works but it seems so appealing right now. So pathetic! I should die. But how? How could I do it?

But I have to play it cool; I'm at work right now. It wouldn't do to break down in tears in front of everyone. Less they think I'm emotionally unstable. I'll hold it until I get to the bathroom. I do my best to steady my frantic breathing, trying not to have a miniature panic attack. The thoughts become more gruesome now, images of the scissors cutting my skin like paper, blood pooling onto the bathroom floor. Cutting my neck to make a cute red smile, or stabbing them into my horribly large stomach, over and over and over, my entrails spilling out onto the floor. My disgusting body...how I hate it. Hate myself. Oh, I should really just lay down and die. Yes, that would be the best thing, I think...

"O-oh, yeah...I'm...I'm ok. That last c-caller...just unsettled me. That's all. S-sorry."

"Yeah, I could hear their shouting all the way from here! You look pale...you sure you're ok?"

"W-well...I actually n-need to...use the bathroom. Sorry; hold the f-fort down until I get b-back...yeah?"

I weakly mutter, only telling a half-truth. I'm sorry; I'm not coming back. I can't do it anymore...I wait until they give me a small nod, turning back to their work. My eyes immediately scan for the scissors I've been fantasizing about, my hand starting to shake as I reach out for them. I take them, the odd plastic and cool metal feeling oddly comforting as I run my hand along them multiple times. Do it. They're in your hands. All it would take is a couple, sharp stabs! Ignoring the compulsion, I do my best to look around the small office, making sure no one is looking at me.

Not like I can tell; after a certain point everything becomes a blur of muddled colors. Seeing as no one is paying me any more attention, I carefully slip the scissors into a pocket of my jacket, my head pounding as I stand up. It's not like anyone would care; I've only had this job for a little while. Still, I would like to be discreet. Not like that will matter once this is over.

I leave our small office space, and begin my walk to the bathroom, calmly hiding the pair of scissors in my inner pocket of my jacket. Thankfully, the bulge of the scissors is unnoticeable as I head inside. I don't want to be interrupted or questioned for what I'm about to do, anyways. Too long or the impulses might leave. I just have to be quiet, is all. I go into one of the empty stalls at the end of the room, locking it tightly with a click. Now….

I take a deep breath, my hand shaking as it holds the scissors, their sharp sheen reflected in the buzzing fluorescent lights above my head. The empty face I stare into seems to nod its acquiescence, eyes dull and lifeless. Yes, these should do the job. I'm just so tired...so very done with it all. I don't want to do this anymore. I'm done with trying, with enduring, all of it. Where has it even gotten me, anyway? I feel my chest ache harshly in response, as if confirming the pain is all too real and not just a delusion of my selfish mind.

Because yes, this is selfish, horribly so. Not that anyone at work really cares. I have no friends in this small town, no one would miss me if I left. I really only talk with people on the internet, and then sparingly enough I don't feel much of a connection. I mostly post my garbage art or writing anyway; I doubt any of them really pay attention to it. And my family? They are days away, and I haven't talked to them in a while. It hurts a little, knowing I am going against them, and the love and work they put into me for so many years...

But...what else can I do to stop this incessant ache? And the damn voices telling me it's the best option for me!?

I do my best to stifle the sobs coming out of my mouth, pressing a free hand across my lips. No...Be quiet! I quickly grab the toilet paper, rolling a sizable amount into a ball and stuffing it into my mouth. That stops the choking sobs from making noise, though my eyes still burn as tears fall onto my cheeks. I feel my legs shake, my hands gripping the handle of the scissors, knuckles whitening as I hear the voices convincing me again. I just try my best to wait, hearing people do their business and washing their hands. I don't want to be caught in the middle of doing the deed. I'll wait until it's completely empty before I start.

All of the therapists I've gone to are useless; they don't get it, no matter how I've tried to explain my issues. The pills have worn out their welcome, no matter which I've been prescribed, offering me nothing. They can't stop the torrent of thoughts plaguing my mind, the incessant drumming of ideas. Only sleep can do that; that beautiful time of nothingness where I am not conscious. Where the blackness of nothingness beckons me. I think back to the dreams I've been having, where I am nothing and everything all at once. Where I feel some kind of comfort wash over me like a blanket, a soft reassurance that everything is going to be ok. Where I don't have to feel so tired, or alone anymore...those dreams where I don't want to wake up to face the morning.

After what feels like eons, the last person finally leaves the bathroom. I tremble a bit, from excitement or fear of what I am about to do I am not sure. Almost as an afterthought, I think back to my internet 'friends', pulling out my phone and quickly hitting the social media app.

'Sorry. I'm done; I can't do this anymore. You've all been such a good group of pals though. I'll probably miss you guys, even though we've never met irl…'

I quickly type that out and hit post, hurriedly turning my phone off so as not to get any annoying notifications. I'd lose my nerve if my phone was buzzing in my pocket. My hand shakes I try and do a test cut, opening the scissors so they are fully extended and gripping them as I plunge them into my left arm. The pain is sharp as they plunge into my arm, making me grunt as they dig a few inches I to my flesh. Blood splashes across my face, an odd sort of glee and fear coming through me as I see the open wound and the blood pouring down my arm. I do my best to clench my teeth as I harshly pull them across the length of my left arm.

"Fffffff!!!!"

Despite my effort to remain silent, a gasp of pain slowly escapes me. I look at my handiwork; a large gash a few inches long and deep is adorning my arm. Something in me breaks at the sight, giggles escaping my lips that soon turn into full on muffled cackles. I rip the scissors out of my arm, wincing at the pain but mesmerized at the sight of my blood coating the once pristine silver. Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear myself protest, screaming that it hurts, that I need to stop, that someone would be disappointed me.

I don't listen.

I ignore the aching and burning pain, ignore the single voice—much quieter than cacophony telling me to continue with delicious pain. Ordering, more like. I gasp, then steel myself again as I lift up my dress shirt to expose the bulging fat of my stomach. The proof of my weakness, my horrible, horrible weakness. Tears leak from my eyes anew, yet I simply focus on the grip of the scissors as I hold them. I lift them up and away from me, before holding in a breath as I plunge them into the soft flesh. It gives way with a horrible squelching noise, intense pain rocking through my body as I try not to make any noise.

"Mmmm—aaah!!"

I pant heavily, looking at my handiwork before deciding this isn't enough. I want to be sure. No coming back. Just empty nothingness. I do it again, making another hole, and another. It's painful, so painful, but I know it will be over soon. Just a little bit more, and then…I hear myself giggle again, looking at the blood on the floor. My breath is short, coming in tiny gasps, yet I hold up the scissors with a hard grip. I use the tip of my fingers to trace a line down my neck to the ridge of my collarbone, feeling the pulse and the warmth. I drag the tip of the scissors against my neck, doing my best to follow the line. It's hard though, as every small breath becomes a choking gurgle, blood splattering across my neck, chin and hands.

I feel my knees drop to the hard tile soon after, my head hitting the cold tile harshly, the implement I had used to make the harsh gashes clattering on the floor. My left hand can no longer move, the tendons in my arm effectively severed, though I can feel the pain from the cuts across my skin and see rivulets of blood dripping down my arm. They seep into the tiled floor, getting in between the cracks and lines, painting them a deep crimson. I hear myself gurgle again, blood pouring out of the line in my neck, a pitiful wheeze. Like it matters anymore. Soon, nothing will matter because I will be dead.

A small smile stretches itself across my face for hopefully what is the last time, as my vision blurs and my eyes slowly start to close. I am finally dying, finally released from this aggravating prison of flesh and meat. Yes...No more thinking. No more insane ideas. No more annoying compulsive thoughts. No way for my existence to bother or burden anyone else. There will be nothing left of me...


End file.
